


Do What You Will

by mehmehmeh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, General mindfuckery, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Mind Rape, Non-Consensual Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Seduction, but not really, nightmares that are real, psychological confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4766072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehmehmeh/pseuds/mehmehmeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>!!!!HEED TAGS FOR WARNING!!!!</p><p>An adventure into one never-ending dreamscape in which Stiles loses his fingers along with his inhibitions. Possibly disturbing imagery and suggested forms of carnal pleasure. Theo is a horny teenager. Reality was overrated anyway.</p><p>The vision and the voice/The view from devil's tower/The snake with tail on tongue/The broken silver one/The glitter on the snow/The place to always go/Do what you will<br/>The Klaxons, Magick</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do What You Will

**Author's Note:**

> I describe Theo as 'queer' at one point but the term has got nothing to do with his sexual orientation/gender identity.

  The clock drip-drip-drips and drops its final second, before it stops. The air instantly grows musty with a silence as dry as cotton. Moonlight breaking shadows into windowed sections on the floor, rows of orderly lockers stand guard against the wall in breathless anticipation. Nothing moves, as if they are all projections onto a screen, pixelated and ultimately fake despite their realistic exterior. The only life disrupting it is Stiles. He gulps in a breath.

  The gasping noise echoes around the corridor in almost tangible air waves. His throat is raw like he spent the entire night breathing through his mouth--speaking of which, what time is it? Even more disconcerting is the temperature: its so cold he is surprised he can't see his exhalations. Bottling down the bubbles of confusion, Stiles looks around briefly and notes: yes, he is wearing his loose shirt and pants that he wore to bed; nope, no socks; the hallway is definitely the high school; and why is it so cold in the middle of August?

  Stiles wipes beading panic from his forehead, feeling his diaphragms contract and expand as he slowly blows through his nostrils. This is not the time to panic. He knows this. He can make sense out of the situation later. Right now he needs to get out of here, go home. With little hesitation he begins to walk, bare feet slightly sticking against the linoleum and picking up lint as they go.

  He keeps his posture loose, ready to sprint at the slightest invocation, and his eyes catch every shadow. As guessed, the hallway is indeed Beacon Hills High School or at least a building with the same layout. Slap, slap, slap goes the syncopation, matching his quickened heartbeat and slightly labored breath. Keep going, turn right, there is the fire extinguisher, that’s his math class he needs to prep for Thursday, staircase, continue on.

  Even as he tries to keep his cool and high alert, Stiles’ brain whirls around the obvious questions--- Why? How? When? ---and the most dreaded of all--- Who? His pallor illuminated blue by the moon, Stiles feels pressure between his shoulder blades like something is on his back. He feels a whisper of a breath against the skin of his neck and immediately shrugs out of reflex.

 

 No.

(Yes)

 

  Breath hitching, Stiles quickens his pace. His heartbeat ups a tempo to match. His toes are starting to hurt against the cold floor but the boy takes no heed as he rushes towards the familiar doors. There is a pit of snakes writhing in his esophagus but he can't let it out. Not yet. He needs to get away, get back, he needs to----

 

\----He needs to wake up.

 

 Fingertips slipping against the handles, Stiles pulls. The door creaks on its hinges and he rushes out---into the arms of a creature he once embraced.

 He chokes.

 His nose fills with a bitter scent that reminds him of winter forests: leaves and stones and frozen mice. The cold is almost unbearable. He grapples against the hold and feels a chuckle against his chest. It vibrates in a way he remembers. The grip tightens, sinking blunt fingernails through the t-shirt into meat. Stiles grunts. The thing enjoys his pain.

 

(You should have called)

 The surrounding melts away into the most primitive black, body suspended in a free fall. Vision fails and leaves Stiles in the dark with only four of his senses to depend on. He strains to turn back towards the doors he just opened but It does not allow him to move. Stiles is captured in It’s stronghold, arms like prison that chaffs against his bare skin. Something wet slithers on the side of his neck and he closes his eyes... but how should he know? Its dark either way. Toes digging into soft dampness, the cold seeps into the bloodstream through his lungs, pumping his body with the same material that creates this nightmare. His head starts to spin.

(I would've loved to join)

 Fingers. Stiles thinks groggily. How many fingers.

(Did you have fun?)

 He feels intoxicated. The absolute darkness nullifies boundaries. Stiles is free. His fingers melt together.

(I know how it feels, as do you)

 A tentative touch on the back of his neck and Stiles relaxes. He knows these hands. These are his hands. He has loved, cared, and broken bones with them. They are the twin accomplices of his covert machinations. They know his secrets under the sheets and their guilty aftermaths. And each time returns innocently pristine under the faucet. The hands follow the curve of his spine, pulling Stiles closer towards the precipice. He gladly follows. It feels right, as if the last white piece has snapped into the milk puzzle. As if a door has closed so the thing can stay. Stiles licks its chapped lips and shudders at the contact.

(Does it not feel good?)

 It nuzzles itself under the boy's jaw, who complies and bares his neck so it can scent him. It is happy and the boy is too. Because it feels good, felt good, and it knows. It understands.

(We will have so much fun)

 A dull tang of warm copper hits his tongue. Stiles feels the hands roam as if to make sure he is indeed here, kneading his buttocks, caressing his thighs, tracing his bellybutton, and finally his crotch. Stiles exhales sharply, which is when he realizes another sense has failed him: hearing. In a muted blinded world Stiles lets go and remembers:

  As he twisted against soft flesh and tendon, he found vindication. As he slammed a muscled body against concrete, he tasted victory. As bodies fled and parted before him, he felt power. And as he spat himself out in unraveled ropes of old bandage, he felt himself rip. Any confidence he might have had in his morality was left in tatters. No possible thread could sew him back together. Not even love, not even sex. Both were amply given but nothing was enough. And as Stiles remembers he remembers why.

(Come here, Stiles)

 Their touch untouched and caressed the very limitations of intimacy, melting into and becoming each other. Painful ecstasy, or ecstatic pain-- did it matter which came first? It was all the same, a delicious feast that they gleefully fed each other mouthfuls from a plate of blood and gore.

 

 

 

 

“I knew you were still there. I knew you never left.”

 As the night breaks, They open Their eyes to the smell of a familiar forest. A lone creature smiles at Them and They cock Their head in silent contemplation. Such a young little thing, kindling dark fire in its excited eyes. It is so round and soft but so … queer. They continue to stare and the not!boy-not!wolf-not!thing shifts uncomfortably. The monster is definitely male and smells artificial;yet, the skins under his nails are fresh. He promises a feast. Content, They look around the dark forest and inhale the night. It is salty with tears and ash. Oh this boy promises a great feast. They smile, and the creature-of-nots gives back a tentative twitch.

 

“I want you,” the youngling says.

“We want you,” They laugh a brittle laugh.

“I brought you back. You are indebted to me,” he shows fangs.

“We can not be tethered,” says They.

“Stiles, are you sure you want to make me do this,” Theo growls with a promise.

To this They answer with a cocked eyebrow and the queer thing grits his little were-teeth.

 

(Does he really think that will work?)

(I may have given him too much credit. Its almost embarrassing.)

(Now, now. Young and prideful is in Our best interest.)

(True.)

 

“I am your Alpha!” he barks.

They scoff. “Foxes have no Alpha, little creature.”

 With that, They make quick advance and grabs the boy by the neck and slams him into a nearby tree. The branches shudder with the impact. Theo’s breath hitches and he makes a pained noise in his throat. Serves him right, They think. They lick Their teeth and press harder on the windpipes. Serves him right.

“Now, lets get one thing straight.”

They show a smirk that lights recognition in Theo’s eyes. He grabs Their wrist to break bone but fails to deliver. Finally, the boy starts to look frightened. It pleases Them.

“The Nogitsune is neither a mere shapeshifter that grows fur and fangs, nor an experiment-gone-wrong freak-thing like you,” They emphasize with another powerful shove and the boy knocks his skull with a crack.

“It is a force of nature, it is as natural as Life and Death, it was there before time and will remain long after. It is Light and Dark and What Lurks In Between. It is the Void that some call Nirvana and others label Hell!”

They channel emotion into the delivery but Theo merely narrows his eyes. Unappreciative jerk.

“We serve no one but Ourselves. We follow no logic or purpose, aside from…” They whisper in the boy’s ear. “…hunger.”

They smell arousal.

 

 Satisfied, They throw the youngling onto the ground littered with leaves and dirt. He scrambles up quickly, massaging his neck. It will bruise. They smile. The arousal grows stronger.

 

“Theo,” They mimic. There is an intake of breath. “You said you wanted Me.”

“I do. Want you,” Theo looks through his lashes. “I want you in my pack, Stiles.”

“We can probably come to an agreement, you and I,” They purr. “We can work together, benefit from one another.”

“I’m sure we can,” Theo takes a tentative step forward and They allow the gesture. “Stiles…”

“Come here.”

 

The shadows quiver. It is so cold, this nightmare, yet so warm.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
